


Serendipity

by insomanic



Series: robot: become human [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Armada, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Medical Trauma, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, did i mention there’s angst, i tried to be accurate, listen i know the summary sounds like a netflix original romcom but i promise the story is good okay, megatron is too sexy for his own good, optimus is horny and confused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:46:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomanic/pseuds/insomanic
Summary: Optimus Prime has been happily married to Ratchet for several years. But when work gets in the way, Optimus starts feeling like Ratchet is putting him second to everything.And then Optimus meets Megatron, who somehow manages to make things infinitely better as he makes them 100 times worse.
Relationships: Breakdown/Knock Out, Megatron/Optimus Prime, Optimus Prime/Ratchet
Series: robot: become human [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677703
Comments: 25
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> please please let me know if there are any glaring errors. i’m posting this with very little editing because it’s 1 AM and i just want to get it OUT.
> 
> (also. marry chrysler ya filthy animals)

When Ratchet wakes up at 10:30 on a Friday to a soft “Good morning, sunshine,” and the smell of freshly brewed coffee, he knows he must be dreaming.

But before he can pinch himself, just to check, his pillow is unceremoniously yanked from under him, and horrible, bright sunlight is blinding him through the open window. Optimus laughs from somewhere above him, and the pillow comes back down hard over his head.

Ratchet grabs it and chucks it in the general direction of his husband’s soft laughter. It thunks against the wall, and “Missed me,” Optimus says, still laughing. 

“And here I thought I was having a good dream,” Ratchet grumbles without any heat, grinning even as Optimus smacks him with the pillow again. He shoves it off and pushes himself up on his elbows, accepting the coffee Optimus offers him with a tired smile. 

“You’re wearing the suit, yes, I love it when you wear the suit,” Ratchet says groggily, leaning back against the headboard to eye his husband up and down appreciatively. Optimus glances down at himself, stifling a laugh when Ratchet waggles his brows suggestively. 

“I have my big embassy interview today,” Optimus says, crossing the bed to slide into Ratchet’s lap like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Ratchet kisses him briefly and tucks his head into the crook of Optimus’ neck, kissing his collarbone. His nose vibrates with Optimus’ rich baritone. “If it goes well I should be back to work within the month.” 

“Mm, that’s good. You know what night it is, right?”

“Date night,” Optimus smiles, climbing off Ratchet’s lap. Ratchet hums in agreement around the rim of the coffee cup. 

“I will pick you up at around....um, six,” Ratchet says distractedly, frowning as his phone starts buzzing across the nightstand. He flips it over and the screen lights up with a missed call from First Aid, along with a multitude of long, desperate texts that have Ratchet’s stomach sinking. He tosses the phone back on the table next to his untouched breakfast and sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “Shit.”

Optimus’ spares him a concerned glance over the top of his briefcase as Ratchet hauls himself out of bed and makes a beeline for the closet. There’s a basket of clean, folded laundry shoved haphazardly into a corner, and Ratchet feels familiarly guilty at the sight of yet another unkept promise staring up at him from the closet floor. He blinks it back, pulling a nice-ish pair of jeans from the top of the pile. 

He’s tugging them on with one hand while rifling through the rest of the laundry for a shirt with the other when Optimus materializes in front of him, white button-down in hand. Ratchet accepts it with a grateful look at shrugs it on, and Optimus tugs it together, nimble fingers reaching for the bottom buttons. 

“Getting called in on your day off again?” He asks softly, gaze fixed on his hands. Ratchet sighs and leans up to kiss Optimus’ temple, letting his hands close around his husband’s trim waist. 

“Emergency surgery. First Aid can’t handle it alone but none of the junior medics are qualified. Red Alert is in Uraya assisting bomb victims and Knock Out is still on maternity leave.” Optimus leaves the top button open and smoothes Ratchet’s collar, pushing Ratchet’s hands from his waist as he steps away. His smile is tight and forced and twists his face in a way Ratchet hates. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Ratchet says helplessly, guilt settling heavy and cold in the pit of his stomach as his phone starts to buzz again. He scoops it up without looking at it and reaches from Optimus’ jaw, brushing his thumb over Optimus’ cheekbone. Blue eyes stay fixed on the floor, and Ratchet’s heart clenches, guilt pushing against his ribs. 

His phone vibrates in his hand. Ratchet lets his hand fall from Optimus’ face with a sigh, grabbing his bag and heading for the door. 

Halfway through the doorway, Ratchet turns. “I love you,” he says firmly, and smiles at Optimus until the door comes between them. 

“I love you, too,” Optimus murmurs as Ratchet’s hurried footsteps fade into the hallway and the front door slams shut behind them. 

-

Ratchet picks up the phone as he’s unlocking his car. “Talk to me.”

_“There was a major accident on 54, got multiple traumas in. One of them is critically unstable; he got broadsided on his motorcycle.”_

“Tell me what we know so far.” Ratchet swerves out of the way just in time to avoid getting rear-ended by a speeding black SUV, and resolutely flicks on his sirens.

_“Causian male, about 6’1”, mid-twenties. He’s fully comatose, possibly hemorrhaging. Has a lot of maxillofacial and external bodily trauma, specifically his lower abdomen and left leg. I already reset his nose and jaw but there’s some open wounds here that need some serious stitches. Three of his fingers on his left hand are broken, two on his right. His right tibia is also fractured, but we don’t know how badly yet.”_

“Okay, send him in for an Axial CT to check for hemorrhage. Make sure he’s getting enough oxygen and hook him up to fluids.” Ratchet skids around a turn and swears when he clips some unfortunate person’s trash can. 

_“His CT actually just came back. He’s hemorrhaging—subdural hematoma, intraparenchymal hemorrhage from contusion and subarachnoid blood.”_ First Aid sounds as concerned as Ratchet feels, though his is manifesting itself differently. 

Ratchet blows through a red light, swearing loudly. “Fucking shit. Prep the OR for emergency surgery and keep him oxygenated and stable until I get there. Get out of the goddamn way!!!” He yells, swerving past a rusty pickup doing 40 in a 60 zone.

“How’s everyone else doing?” He asks a moment later, out of breath. 

_“We got four others, all from the same accident. Two kids with minor injuries; not even a broken bone on them, thank God. Their mom broke her radius, though; it’s minor, one of the interns is handling it. The other is in the ICU for a collapsed lung.”_

Ratchet sighs, slowing down so he can rub his face. “Jesus. We don’t have the space for this shit.”

_“I know, Ratch. But it’s not like we can turn away a flatlining patient.”_

“Fuck,” Ratchet says distractedly. 

_“Is something wrong, Ratch? You sound out of it.”_

“Just … stupid marital problems. Don’t let me distract you.”

_“No, talk to me. It’s not stupid if it’s affecting you like this. And we don’t have time for any flying wrench related injuries today.”_

That startles a chuckle out of Ratchet, and he relaxes just slightly. “Okay. Work has been...time-consuming, as of late. We missed a couple of date nights and I’ve been too tired to work on intimacy, and I think he’s finally getting sick of it. Sick of me,” Ratchet admits, and swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

There’s a long, contemplative pause from the other end of the line. The road is starting to blur in Ratchet’s vision, and he’s white-knuckling the wheel by the time First Aid replies, his voice soft. 

_“The clinic’s been loaded recently. There’s been so much to do, and you do so much of it, Ratch, it’s amazing. You’re CMO, pushing 50, and developing spinal osteoarthritis so fast it’s a wonder you can still operate at all.”_ First Aid says, not unkindly. _“It’s not your fault, Ratchet.”_

“45, at _most_!” Ratchet protests fiercely, but he’s beginning to smile. First Aid’s tone is soft and forgiving, and the ugly thing that’s been squeezing Ratchet’s throat since this morning leaves so suddenly Ratchet’s chest aches with the relief of it. His fingers hurt when he finally loosens his grip. “And I do not have arthritis.”

 _“Whatever you say, boss.”_ The rustle of surgical scrubs and clinking tools takes over the audio for a moment, _“-can’t expect a perfect relationship, but if_ this _is what qualifies as a fight for you two--well, I rest my case. OR’s ready for you, Ratch.”_

“Thank you, First Aid. Watch his vitals, I’ll be there in three.” Ratchet hangs up and presses the gas with renewed vigor and a much clearer head. There were people that needed help, his help; he could not afford to be distracted. 

Everything else would have to wait.

-

Optimus shifts on the hard plastic chair, staring blankly at the book in his lap. The words register no more than they did the past six times he re-read the page. He takes a deep breath and slams the book closed with more force than necessary, leaning his head back against the cold hallway window and closing his eyes. Clenched jaws and rushed goodbyes and Ratchet’s sad, sad eyes flash behind his eyelids, and Optimus hurriedly opens them again.

Ratchet’s distance wasn’t just limited to this morning. His husband would work himself to death if left to his own devices, Optimus had accepted that when they got married. It was part of the reason they got along so well—they each threw themselves wholly into their work, and sometimes the effects showed. Past partners hadn’t understood that, or if they had, weren’t willing to make the necessary adjustments that came with dating a workaholic. With them, that refractory period hadn’t even existed; it was just a matter of figuring out each other’s schedules, when work would leave them exhausted and emotionally drained, and going from there. Ratchet had slid effortlessly into Optimus’ life and became his rock before he’d even realized he was in love. 

When he’d finally worked up the nerve to admit it, and the chemistry they’d always had was finally offered a spark, it lit up like an alcohol fire. Loving Ratchet was so natural it hardly felt like a change at all, except for maybe a monthly date night or two and a whole lot more mind-blowing sex. 

But in the past three months, only one date night had been attended, and any sort of sex was more of a once-in-a-blue-moon occurance than anything else. And not for lack of chemistry, oh not at all, but for work. Being CMO of Iacon Medical wasn't easy—Optimus could understand that, he was an Embassy for 1/13th of the High Council as well as the entirety of the Iconian Archives for nearly a decade, for Primus’ sake—but on their wedding night, both he and Ratchet had each made a promise that, no matter how pressing or important, they would never prioritize any part of their work over each other. 

Lately, it feels like Ratchet has forgotten that promise, and Optimus can no longer pretend that doesn’t sting. 

Optimus sighs and shifts on the bench again as his eyes track the path of support beams across the spotless glass ceiling. This building is all pristine glass and unforgiving metal and high-tech everything, not a single doorknob in sight. It’s nothing like the towering bookshelves and congenial silence Optimus knows, and it’s making him uncomfortable. The archives meant getting lost in a world of words tucked into one of the many nooks and crannies, the mismatched furniture soft and warm and dappled with color as the sun filters through the stained glass windows. This place reeks of good money spent just because some stiff, soul-sucking corporate sharks had the extra to spend. Optimus wonders if he’ll ever get used to it. 

“See something interesting up there?” A deep, rough voice comes from his right, sounding amused. Optimus jolts in his chair and sits up, his gaze landing on a very, very tall man leaning against the doorframe, dressed in the nicest suit Optimus has ever seen. It’s a matte gunmetal gray three piece, cut flawlessly to the man’s muscled figure like a second skin. A silver Rolex winks at Optimus from the man's left wrist. 

“I...well, no, I suppose not.” Optimus says, blinking, trying not to seem too caught off guard as he stands and tucks his book back into his bag. The man slides his hands out of his pockets and stretches one out to Optimus.

“Megatron,” he says. Optimus takes the offered handshake, and tries to ignore the shock of heat that shoots up his spine when Megatron’s hand closes around his own. It’s firm and warm and larger than his own, and Optimus starts, surprised, when scar tissue catches against his palm. His gaze flits from their hands, to Megatron’s face, searching, curious-- 

His breath catches in his throat when their eyes meet.

Megatron’s eyes are an amber so intense they’re nearly red, framed by sharp, groomed brows in the same gray as his suit. Two sets of sister scars stretch from his lower lashline like lightning bolts, one short and clean, the other trailing deep and jagged from his tear ducts to his cupid’s bow. His lip line and jaw are peppered with thinner white scratches, like he cut himself shaving one too many times.

Optimus knows right then that Megatron does not fit in here any more than Optimus does, no matter how well his $3,000 suit fits him. It does more to calm his nerves than it should, despite the fact that Optimus has to try very hard to not be distracted by the second part of that thought in the form of Megatron’s deltoids flexing underneath the jacket as he tugs the sliding glass door open. 

Optimus inhales slowly, centering himself, before following Megatron into a meticulously monochrome office that would be edging bland if not for the few modest plants scattered around. Megatron pulls a thick binder from the bookshelf below a massive L-desk and settles into the leather office chair behind it, tugging his laptop closer to him with one hand. Optimus takes a seat in one of the chairs lined up in front of the desk and waits patiently as Megatron finished setting up. His gaze falls on a framed photo of what can only be a younger version of his interviewer, grainy but unmistakably Megatron, his arm slung around the shoulders of a slender, poker-faced man. Optimus leans in, curious, but before he can get a closer look Megatron is turning his attention fully onto Optimus, sliding the binder in front of him. Optimus sits up straight and gathers his thoughts, trying not to squirm under Megatron’s scrutinizing amber stare. 

“So, you submitted your resume last week, yes?” Megatron says, maintaining eye contact as the binder _thunks_ open threateningly against the tabletop. 

“Correct. I must say I’m surprised I got an interview slot so soon; you seemed to be fairly backed up from what I could tell.” Optimus replies easily, ignoring the obvious intimidation tactic. Megatron scrutinizes him for a moment more before he nods almost imperceptibly, and starts flipping through the pages. 

“Yes, well, it’s not often we receive an application from a Prime’s personal embassy,” Megatron says a bit sharply as he pulls a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket. He adjusts them on his nose and frowns down at the open page, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. It’s a look so adorably out of place on Megatron’s rugged face that Optimus has to bite his lip to stifle an embarrassingly undignified sound. Megatron looks up at him curiously, and something must show on Optimus’ face because his scarred lips curl up into a smirk and he leans forward, elbows resting against the open binder. 

“See something interesting up here?” He asks, waggling his brows. Optimus laughs helplessly, and the tension of the morning bleeds out of him with it as Megatron’s smirk spreads into a grin. 

The rest of the interview goes smoothly enough, with Megatron’s easy confidence-bordering-on-arrogance providing an atmosphere casual enough that by the end of it Optimus’ muscles have loosened to an almost normal posture. His face feels warm, from laughter or from the afternoon sun streaming in through the wide windows (when did it get so late?), Optimus doesn’t know, and he finds that he doesn’t really care. It feels nice, he realizes, and it fills the dark hole that’s been festering inside of him with something disenthralling and warm like chambré Cabernet in front of the fireplace with Ratchet. 

_Ratchet_ drips cold and sobering down his spine, and Optimus’ snaps ramrod straight in an instant. Megatron is still leaning back in his seat, his chin resting on his fist as he gazes at Optimus with something soft and dangerous glimmering in his beautiful eyes, and Optimus thinks, feverishly, _I need to leave before I do something stupid._

Optimus grabs his briefcase and is making a break for the door with a harried “Thank you!” shouted blindly over his shoulder when his foot catches on the lip of the doorframe and cracks, audibly. He hisses in pain and stumbles, falling backwards into the office, arms flailing helplessly. 

A hand closes around his hip before he can hit the ground. Optimus’ close around firm shoulders without thinking, and he looks up right into Megatron’s startled eyes.

Optimus swallows, hard. They’re so _red_ , solid and fiery and flecked with dull orange, his pupils blown wide and dark in the center. He smells inexplicably like Old Spice and moly-grease but it fits, and it’s heady and perfect and Optimus is suddenly painfully aware of their proximity. Megatron’s chest is heaving and his arm is solid and warm against the small of Optimus’ back and he’s supporting his weight so _easily_ , with _one hand_ \--

Megatron releases him and steps back hastily, and Optimus starts at the pang of disappointment it brings. 

“You should sit down.” Megatron says, gesturing to one of the chairs. He looks flustered, the tips of his ears suspiciously pink, his jacket rumpled where Optimus had grabbed it. He refuses to meet Optimus’ eyes as he limps his way over to the chair and lowers himself into it. 

Optimus rolls his ankle experimentally and grits his teeth when it protests painfully. Megatron narrows his eyes at him over his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

Optimus waves him off. “I just bent it wrong. I’ll be fine.”

“I disagree.” Megatron says, retreating back behind the suave businessman facade. Optimus gives him a look, and Megatron backtracks smoothly. “I only meant you should at least let me look at it. It was my fault; I should have warned you about the lip.”

Optimus opens his mouth to protest, but Megatron is already pulling a small first aid kit from underneath his desk. Optimus raises a curious brow but says nothing as Megatron kneels at his feet and opens the surprisingly well-stocked kit.

Optimus tightens his grip on the arms of the chair when Megatron’s warm hand closes around his ankle, rough and calloused but not unpleasant. The metal of his watch is cool against Optimus’ suddenly hot skin. He turns Optimus’ ankle back and forth, which sends a twinge of pain shooting up Optimus’ leg, and he tells Megatron so. Megatron purses his lips and rubs his thumb over the top of Optimus’ ankle absentmindedly. Optimus presses his knees together and bites the inside of his cheek, willing the undignified sound crowding the back of his throat to stay there. 

“Well, it’s not broken, but I’d probably keep weight off it for a while.” Megatron says decidedly. “I’m going to wrap it. Stay there.”

Optimus nods, clasping his hands together between his knees to ground himself as Megatron’s fingers slide over his foot to push his sock down. His gaze flits around the room, desperate to find something to distract himself, when it lands on the picture frame perched on the edge of Megatron’s desk. He reaches for it without thinking, tracing the smooth oak frame with his fingers. Young Megatron grins back at him, skin smooth and unblemished, handsome and windblown in a tight white flightsuit that outlines him out starkly against the dark paint of the plane behind him. The man against his side, comparatively, blends into the background, with his purple-blue flightsuit and dark complexion. 

“Soundwave.” Megatron says suddenly, and Optimus looks down at him, startled. He’s staring at the picture but not really seeing it, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a faint smile. “That’s Soundwave. He and I graduated high school together; joined the Air Force the year after. That picture was taken at Boot Camp in Summer of ‘98.” Megatron looks back down at Optimus’ foot, tugging at the edges of the bandage. His next words are so quiet Optimus almost doesn’t catch them. 

“We were so young.”

Optimus sets the photo back on Megatron’s desk, his fingertips lingering over the glass. “Did...he didn’t…”

Megatron scoffs. “God, no. He was too good for that. It’s just….” he trails off, eyes glazing over as he looses himself in thought once more. “War changes people. Sometimes forever.”

Optimus nods in understanding. As an envoy, he’s seen no shortage of soldiers, some of them friends, start out as bright, fresh-faced, promising young people and come back with hollow voices and empty, emotionless eyes. 

He places what he hopes is a comforting hand on Megatron’s shoulder. They sit there like that for a moment, just breathing together, before Megatron brushes him off and pushes himself up. 

“That should do it,” he says, and it takes Optimus a moment to remember what he’s talking about. Megatron looms over him like this, tall and broad and glorious, haloed golden by the widows behind them. Optimus inhales shakily, desperately tamping down the sudden rush of white-hot desire befitting a man half his age and with much less self-control. 

Optimus clears his throat and pushes himself up, taking some pride in the fact that he’s almost eye-level with Megatron. “I need to go,” and, because they both need the reminder, “My husband is probably waiting for me.”

Optimus pretends not to notice the flash of disappointment in Megatron’s eyes as he nods stiffly, extending his hand. “I will get back to you as soon as we make our final decision.”  


Optimus takes his hand and shakes it firmly for no longer than he has too. _Keep it professional._ “Thank you. I will be looking forward to it.”

He releases Megatron’s hand and turns, walking slowly out of the office even as the feeling that he left something important behind settles over him like a thick, stifling fog.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah shit i wrote smut 
> 
> this isn’t the first time i’ve written but smut this is the first time i’m actually posting a piece of smut that i’ve written and i feel like i’m kinda shit at writing smut so excuse me if it’s trash im trying my best. also it’s 1 AM here and i didn’t review this before i posted it bc it’s done and i wanna get it out so f it plz excuse any glaring errors

Optimus collapses against the door the instant it closes behind him, sliding down to the floor. He stays there for a long moment, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, except now it’s familiar wood against his back instead of glass. 

Optimus blinks rapidly and pushes himself up. The apartment is dark and silent and empty, but Optimus isn’t about to leave it that way. As long and hard as Ratchet’s work days have been recently, Optimus tries his hardest to minimize the work he has to do at home. The extra work is worth it to see the gratitude in Ratchet’s eyes when there’s dinner waiting on the table and a warm bed to sink into when he gets home. 

Besides, Optimus needs it too, to distract himself from the way he’s aching to be back in that stiff, meticulous office, loose and beaming as warm sunlight falls across his face. 

Optimus flicks the kitchen light, and the bright artificial white of it chases the last of the ache away. The morning’s conversation flashes through his head, and an idea starts forming. Optimus takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, grabs his apron, and gets to work. 

_8:30 PM_

Optimus smiles proudly at the steaming plates spread carefully across the dining room table, piled high with eggplant parmesan and antipasto salad. A silver candle trident flickers idly in the center, casting the darkened room in warm golden light. It’s as romantic as a home dinner can get, and Optimus knows Ratchet prefers stay-in date nights to anything else. He just hopes it’s enough to coerce Ratchet to stay up with him, long enough to at least get a decent conversation going. 

Optimus sets the bourbon out, just in case. 

_9:45 PM_

Optimus shifts restlessly, drawing his robe tighter around him, and resists the urge to check his phone. The plates have long since stopped steaming, and though they’re still warm, they won’t stay that way much longer. 

Optimus gives in and flips his phone over. It shows the time, and not much else. His own face beams up at him from the lock screen, pulled tightly against Ratchet’s side, both of them dressed to the nines and grinning like fools. Optimus traces Ratchet’s handsome face with his thumb until the screen goes black. 

He sighs, and keeps waiting. 

_10:20 PM_

Wax drips down the candlestick and pools in a hardening disk around its base. Optimus picks at it absently as he pushes half-eaten eggplant around his plate, his cheek resting on his hand. His phone sits silently beside him, the screen blank. 

He stares at his reflection until he can’t look at the defeated person staring back anymore. 

_11:15 PM_

Optimus shoves the tinfoil-wrapped food the oven and slams the door shut with more force than necessary. He resolutely turns his back to the glowing blue numbers blinking up at him and braces his hands on the kitchen counter, shifting his weight. It’s cold against his palms. 

Optimus waits until his skin has turned frigid from it before he pushes back and presses his hands over his eyes, hard enough to see spots. He’s _exhausted_. 

_One more hour._

-  


_**12:47 AM**_  


Ratchet throws his bag down and kicks the door shut behind him, yawning widely. He shrugs off his coat and kicks his shoes across the floor as he shuffles through the living room, uncaring of where they end up as long as they aren’t on him anymore.

He stops short at the sight of the dinner table, set for two, burned-out candles perched sadly on top of the nice silver trident passed down from Optimus’ grandfather. The plate closest to him is half-covered in what looks to be homemade eggplant parm. The other sits clean and untouched, and Ratchet suddenly wants to scream. 

He scoops up the dirty plate without really registering what he’s doing and dumps it in the sink, rinsing it briefly before sliding it into the empty dishwasher. Guilt settles in his stomach like a rock as he drags himself into the bedroom and catches sight of the motionless lump curled up in the far corner. 

Ratchet slides in next to Optimus, unsure of what to say or do. His husband doesn’t move, nor give any other sign that he’s awake, the blanket rising and falling slowly with each even breath. 

“Hey,” Ratchet says softly. “Sweetheart?”

Optimus stays silent, but his breathing quickens ever so slightly. Ratchet presses on.

“Listen, I know things have been...less than perfect for us as of late. But I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, and I love you,” Ratchet swallows hard around the rock that seems to have relocated to his throat. “And I’m trying. I really am. I know that doesn’t help, nor does it fix anything, but. I am.” 

Optimus is quiet for a long moment before he exhales shakily, turning to look at Ratchet over his shoulder. His eyes are wet. Ratchet swallows harder, blinking furiously. 

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to apologize,” Optimus says, his voice soft, but it’s enough to cut through the suffocating silence that has begun to settle over them. “I know how hard you are trying. The way I acted this morning was selfish and immature and I shouldn’t have—“

“You’re allowed to be selfish sometimes,” Ratchet blurts out, cutting Optimus off. “You’re always so sensitive to other people’s problems that sometimes you ignore your own. It’s one of your best and worst qualities,” Ratchet chuckles briefly, “But I never want you to put aside your own feelings for my benefit. I’m not the only person in this relationship. And I want to make you happy, but I need you to tell me how to do that. Because I _know_ you haven’t been. So just please...talk to me?”

Optimus averts his gaze, staring down at the blanket draped over his shoulders. “I just wish you had more time,” he admits finally, in a quiet, exhausted exhale that makes Ratchet’s heart clench.

Ratchet swings his legs over and rolls onto his side, staring up at Optimus from the pillows. “I know, sweetheart. So do I.”

Optimus keeps his eyes down as he slumps against the headboard, looking almost defeated. Ratchet’s heart clenches again, feeling like his ribcage is shrinking in his chest. Wordlessly, he slides one hand across the bed and turns it palm-up; an olive branch.

Optimus only hesitates for a moment before he slips his hand into Ratchet’s. Ratchet curls his fingers around Optimus’ instantly, and there’s a shaky sigh before he’s being tugged closer, one arm coming up to wrap around Optimus’ waist as he settles against Ratchet’s back. 

Ratchet squeezes Optimus’ hand, and hopes it’s enough. 

-

Optimus wakes up the next morning coughing violently as the thick scent of smoke billows through the apartment. He staggers out of bed, one hand clasped over his mouth, and blindly follows the various beeping timers and shrieking alarms to the kitchen. 

Muffled curses come from somewhere off to his left, followed by a loud crash and louder swearing. Suddenly the overhead fans flip on and the smoke starts to clear, revealing a charred, grease-stained Ratchet standing dejectedly beside a pan of unidentifiable black lumps.

“I tried to make breakfast,” he says, and looks up at Optimus with such a ridiculous pout plastered over his face that Optimus cannot contain his laughter. 

Ratchet joins in a moment later, both of them doubling over in mirth, which then bleeds into simultaneous coughing fits because the smoke hasn’t quite cleared yet. 

“What inspired that?” Optimus asks when they’ve both calmed down enough to speak. 

Ratchet pulls him in for a kiss. “I took the day off. For real this time. I wanted to do something nice for you since I missed the likely amazing dinner you made for us last night.”

Something warm swells in Optimus’ chest, and he smiles against Ratchet’s lips as he leans in to steal another kiss. “As much as I love that idea, perhaps do something that won’t nearly burn the apartment down next time.”

Ratchet glances behind them at the pan, which is still smoking. “Damn. Toast?”

Optimus chuckles and pushes his nose into Ratchet’s hair. “Acceptable, provided you use extreme caution.”

Ratchet looks over his shoulder with a challenging glint in his eyes. “You forget, I _survived_ off of toast in med school.”

“And cup ramen.” Optimus reminds him playfully. Ratchet scoffs and leans into him.

“Oh, woe is me. If only I had a handsome, loving husband to cook me wholesome meals instead.”

“Maybe you would, if you showed up in time to eat said wholesome meals he so painstakingly prepared for you,” Optimus retorts, smiling. Ratchet raises his hands in defeat before detaching from Optimus to slide two slices of rye into the toaster.

Optimus steals Ratchet’s cooling coffee off the countertop and takes a sip before Ratchet leans over and steals it back. “We do have unclaimed coffee,” he scolds, only half-joking, before the toast pops and draws his attention. Optimus takes advantage of the momentary distraction and snatches the mug again.

“I think I like this kind more,” he says, smiling around the rim. “It tastes like you.”

Ratchet looks over his shoulder, doing the “Dwanye Johnson”, as Smokescreen would say, though this one has a blatantly seductive note that only Optimus is allowed to see. “Oh?” He says, inching slowly closer. “What exactly, do I taste like, then?”

Optimus waits until their lips are a hair's breadth apart before he leans down to Ratchet’s ear and whispers, in his best bedroom voice,

“Bitter and cold.” 

He pushes the cup into Ratchet’s hands and races towards the bedroom before Ratchet has even processed the words, laughing out loud when he hears the furious footsteps taking off down the hallway after him. 

Ratchet catches up with him as he reaches the bedroom door, muffling Optimus’ laughter with his tongue as he shoves them both towards the bed. Optimus lets himself be maneuvered back onto the mattress, flopping down onto his back gracelessly as Ratchet clambers back over him. 

Optimus smiles and bites his lower lip, letting his head fall back against the pillows as Ratchet presses slow, languid kisses against his body. He lets himself get lost in the feeling of Ratchet’s hands on him, sinking into the mattress, eyes closed in contentment, stretching out and writhing slowly. It feels so good to move like this, with Ratchet inching his way down warm and soft and scratchy from stubble in a way that’s so familiarly _Ratchet_ ; Optimus can’t help but melt into it. 

Ratchet tugs Optimus’ robe open and pulls his underwear down with his teeth, kissing around his half-hard cock to bite down on his inner thigh. 

Optimus’ jaw drops and he gasps, arching into Ratchet’s mouth as his legs fall open on their own accord. Ratchet kisses the bite mark gently before he shifts over and traces a slow circle around Optimus’ hole with his tongue. Optimus throws his head back and moans desperately, fisting at the sheets. Ratchet repeats the motion a few times before dipping low to lick a slow stripe from Optimus’s hole to the base of his cock, and Optimus cries out, his legs shooting up on either side of Ratchet’s head. 

Ratchet grins against his skin before he pushes himself up on his knees. Optimus whines when Ratchet’s hot mouth parts with him only to have it replaced with two fingers, and Optimus isn’t sure when Ratchet lubed up but he must have, since the slide of them against Optimus’ hole is slick and smooth. Optimus opens up for him easily, taking them in to the knuckle, and a brief twinge of pain from the stretch is a reminder of how long it’s been since they’ve done this. Ratchet studies Optimus’ face as he curls his fingers, searching, and it only takes a moment before—

 _Oh._ Optimus’ hips jump off the bed and he cries out, back arching, when Ratchet finds his sweet spot. He drags his fingers over it slowly, gently, a torturous off-on pressure that sends hot jolts of pleasure shooting up Optimus’ spine. Optimus moans wordlessly, his toes curling against the sheets, fingers tangled in the pillows above his head as Ratchet works him open. 

A third finger circles the rim of his hole and Optimus whines again, arching up into Ratchet’s hand. They lock eyes for a moment, both of them breathing hard, gazes cloudy and half-lidded with lust and something softer, warmer. Optimus hadn’t realized how much he’d missed seeing that look until it was focused back on him again. 

He reaches for Ratchet’s free hand and squeezes, and smiles softly when Ratchet squeezes back. 

Ratchet doesn’t look away as he leans down and closes his mouth over Optimus’ cock as his third finger simultaneously slides home. 

Optimus throws his head back and makes a strangled sound, his stomach tightening so quickly that it steals all the breath from him. Ratchet’s fingers curl over his sweet spot with just the right amount of pressure as he flicks his tongue against the underside of Optimus’ cock, and it’s all so much, too good, all at once, he knows he won’t last. The heat in his belly builds and builds until it bursts with a clever twist of Ratchet’s fingers, and his orgasm unravels through his body, his hips twitching helplessly into Ratchet’s mouth as he rides through it. 

He collapses back onto the bed an eternity later, breathless. Ratchet is staring at him, his pupils blown wide with desire, his cock straining in his boxers. Optimus smiles and palms him through the thin fabric, relishing in the sharp inhale and the way Ratchet’s cock jumps eagerly under his fingers. 

Ratchet withdrawals his own fingers from Optimus’ body and fumbles with the waistband, shoving them down his thighs and leaning over Optimus again. Optimus laughs softly as Ratchet kisses him and feels blindly for Ratchet’s cock, making a small sound of victory into Ratchet’s mouth when his fingers close around the leaking head. 

Ratchet shudders when Optimus begins a slow rhythm, mouthing at the shell of his ear. Optimus rests his forehead against Ratchet’s temple and peppers his face with kisses, keeping his strokes steady and firm as Ratchet thrusts back into his hand.

Ratchet exhales harshly against Optimus’ ear when he speeds up, his breathing hot and labored. Optimus smiles and kisses his jaw, swiping his thumb over the slit and grinning at the strangled cry it wrings out of Ratchet. He leans down to suck a mark into Rachet’s neck as his thrusts stutter and turn desperate, and it only takes three more furious strokes before Ratchet’s entire body goes rigid and he spills over Optimus’ hand with a groan.

He slumps over with a shaky exhale a moment later, throwing an arm over his eyes. They lay there for a long moment, breathing together as they bask in the afterglow, sweaty and slightly tacky, but sated. 

Optimus rolls over eventually, tucking himself into Ratchet’s side as much as he’s able. Ratchet’s arm curls automatically around his waist, his thumb tracing the curve of it absentmindedly as he buries his face into Optimus’ damp hair. They drift off tangled in each other, and somewhere deep down Optimus knows they’ve fixed what they needed to.

-

Megatron throws himself onto his california king mattress face-first and fully clothed, like an indignant child upset about an early bedtime. Except he’s dead tired, and it’s nearly midnight, and he wishes his pillows would swallow him up and suffocate him slowly so he never had to deal with another pig-headed shareholder again. 

His phone buzzes inside his briefcase. He ignores it in favor of wiggling out of his clothes while also applying minimal effort and moving as little as physically possible. 

He’s down to his shirt (which, infuriatingly, will not unbutton without use of his hands) and underwear (which is staying on) when it buzzes again and doesn’t stop. Megatron groans and pulls his briefcase up onto the bed with his foot, fishing out his phone in a similar fashion until he can reach it with his hand. 

It’s a string of drunken, unintelligible nonsense from Starscream, followed by about 32 frantic DMs from Thundercracker and Skywarp asking if he knows where Star is. One lone text in the midst of it all simply reads, _I have him._ It’s from Soundwave. Megatron screenshots it and sends it to the trine group chat before he locks his phone and flops back down against the bedspread.

He opens his eyes five minutes later, no less tired but unable to sleep, and reaches for his phone again. The spam has stopped, so he opens Instagram and scrolls through, liking absently. 

_I wonder…. _His thoughts flicker back to the interview, tinged with sunlight and happiness and warmth, and he taps the magnifying glass icon before he can talk himself out of it. His finger hesitates briefly over the search bar before he gives in.__

__The first profile suggestion is exactly who he’s looking for. Optimus is verified, and has over 500k followers, which isn’t exactly unexpected—Megatron himself has about the same, but it’s still enough to make him stop and stare for a moment. He hadn’t pegged Optimus as the type._ _

__He blinks and scrolls down, taking in Optimus’ feed. He has a couple hundred posts, which is more than Megatron can say. Most of them are work related; environmental awareness campaigns, human rights marches, speeches, protests, the like. Some of them are of Optimus himself, both leading and participating. Megatron watches a few of them, and though he’s already vaguely familiar with Optimus’ work, he still finds himself thoroughly moved by both the words he says and the conviction in his voice when he says them. His speeches are calmer, pacific, even; built much more on hard facts than Megatron’s own, his crowd silent and reverent where Megatron’s would be roaring to be heard right alongside him—the effect of a diplomat vs that of a revolutionary. It’s impressive all the same._ _

__Megatron likes them and scrolls along._ _

__Optimus’ feed is peppered with soft photos of early morning lattes and beautiful skyline views from his high rise apartment. _It suits him,_ , Megatron thinks with a smile, pausing on one of the sky views to admire their city backdropped by a soft pastel sky streaked with clouds. _ _

__His smile fades when he scrolls down to the next post. It’s a frame-by-frame video of Optimus and another man laying in bed, side by side, the sheets a rumpled mess around their shoulders. Their foreheads are touching, and as the video shutters through, they shift closer and meet in the middle in a chaste kiss, ending in sweet smiles and laughter before it starts over. The caption is a single red heart emoji._ _

__Megateon furrows his brows at it. There’s no account tagged over it, and he doesn’t recognize the guy sucking face with Optimus. It’s an older man, strawberry blonde with a tan complexion, much lighter than Optimus’ but not light enough to be entirely Caucasian._ _

__Megatron frowns and flicks through until he finds another video, another frame-by frame. This one shows the two of them swaying gently in the center of a candlelit dining room, their arms around each other. The caption reads _Nancy by Sinatra_ , with another heart emoji. _ _

__There’s still no account tags or hints as to who the other man is. Megatron returns to scouring Optimus’ feed for clues until he scrolls down to an old Christmas photo, and stops short._ _

__It’s a set of several full-body shots of Optimus alone, in various poses ranging from sitting with his legs crossed atop a giant gift box to standing and beaming at something out of frame with his hands clasped in front of him. But the thing that gives Megatron pause is his _outfit_ , the majority of which is a vibrant red satin material, cinched tight over Optimus’ body like a velvet glove. His silhouette is haloed by the tree lights behind him, the sheen of the fabric highlighting the subtle, sinful curves of his waist and hips before they’re interrupted by white trim, before everything melts back into dark chocolate skin glowing softly in the low light. _ _

__Altogether, it should be much too feminine for any man of Optimus’ build to pull off, but _God_ is he pulling it off, fluffy faux fur and all. _ _

__Megatron stares breathlessly for a long moment, trying and failing to take it all in at once, to focus on one thing when everything is equally stunning to look at. He traces the curve of Optimus’ hips with his gaze, zooms in on the juncture of his shapely thighs, where the trim rides up ever so slightly as he leans forward in the picture._ _

__He’s busy willing his stirring cock to calm down as he zooms in on Optimus’ exposed shoulders when his thumb slips, and the little heart pops up right over photo Optimus’ chest._ _

__Megatron’s eyes go wider than plates and he stares in panicked horror for a long moment. The posting date stares him down, mid-december of three years ago, and he swears out loud, flailing frantically until he manages to tap the bottom heart icon and unlike the photo._ _

__He throws the phone onto his nightstand and ignores the red numbers informing him that almost two hours have passed in favor of staring in detached horror at the ceiling. He forces his eyes closed and takes a deep breath in a feeble attempt at calming himself, feeling absurdly like a fumbling adolescent with a puppy crush on a senior girl light years out of his league._ _

__Megatron groans and pulls his pillow over his head, wishing he could muffle his brain from the outside. The exhaustion settles back in abruptly, having been chased away by the sudden rushes of arousal and adrenaline over the past few hours, and Megatron lets it wash over him willingly, banishing the last of the panic._ _

__When he falls asleep, his dreams are soft and warm like an afternoon interview with red velvet hips against his._ _

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO THIS IS SUPER LATE BUT I WROTE THIS AS A BIRTHDAY GIFT FOR MY DEAREST DARLINGEST FRAND FRAND NICOLE-SENPAI (ChillsOfFire here on AO3) WHO WROTE THE MAGNIFICENT SHITSHOW THAT IS THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY GO READ IT RN OK 
> 
> She’s been there for me thru a LOT of shit and i appreciate her letting me screech her ear off about TF and other fandoms that she’s not even in but she tolerates my bullshit. I just ajdjwkdnwkkfke she’s like one of my favorite humans ever i can’t even begin to explain how much i love this person.
> 
> Basically. HI NICOLE I LUV U WITH MY ENTIRE SOUL AND I KNOW HOW MUCH U WANTED ME TO WRITE THIS SO HERE TAKE IT I LOVE YOU THE MOST 
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY AND MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU STUPID WANKER HAVE I MENTIONED I FUCKING LOVE YOU


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